


Prove Me Wrong

by HoneyFlakes



Category: One Direction
Genre: Bloody, Bottom!Harry, CIA involvement, Character Death, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Fugitive!louis, M/M, Mystery, Sexual Content, Smut, Thriller, but not major character death, detective!harry, i have no idea how tags work i am sorry, im not joking it gets very bloody, like really bloody, mentions of abuse, top!Louis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-18 13:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyFlakes/pseuds/HoneyFlakes
Summary: You know what was scary about him?He had paintings of the past bombings, shootings, robberies—of every single crime in the recent months.You know what's horrifying?He painted them weeks, some even years, before they happened.You know what's the most terrifying thing about him?He has an apartment full of these paintings—more than half of them have yet to happen.Or Louis Tomlinson goes on the run with the one person who believed he deserves a better life: Detective Harry Styles.Although, they don't exactly like each other.





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> It's gonna be a wild ride.
> 
> Special thanks to [@nhlarrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhlarrie/pseuds/nhlarrie)  for helping me check for errors

 

 

 

_He has to stop it. Has to. Has to._

 

The man woke up to the sound of sirens and screams, the blurry sight of blue and red lights, the metallic smell and taste of his own blood, and the feeling of pain on his skin caused by the broken glass beneath his body. He was confused as his half-opened eyes watched the world sway around him.

He was aware of how his body was somehow simultaneously numb and in pain. It was numb to his own orders, refusing to move the way he wanted to, but still he felt the pain and aches from different parts of his body.

A white light beamed right into his tired eyes, and it took a while for the man's sluggish mind to register the sight of the gun pointed right at him. He would have ran if his numb body would have listened. But it didn't, so he laid there and wished the ringing in his ears to fade so he could hear what was happening clearer.

He saw a man standing over him. Through his blurry eyes he could barely make out the shape of the gun, and the police uniform that covered the stranger's body. He saw the policeman's mouth moving, that was for sure, but the sounds were drowned, as if he were hearing all of it from underwater. 

He saw the man nod at someone behind him, before suddenly reaching down and pulling him up. Not in a gentle way one would think the paramedics, or even a normal person, would handle a heavily wounded man. He was confused, his body was slumped and unresisting, yet the officer pulled his hands behind his back with much force. He felt the cold sting of metal against his skin, and heard the unmistakable click of handcuffs.

It was then that his hearing cleared all of a sudden, which made him wince at the sudden blaring noises. He hissed before he blinked up at the officer who had obviously been talking to him the entire time.

"What?" He drawled out, his voice rough. The man scowled at him, thinking that this was just another broke, stoned man causing havoc and disrespecting authorities. He was sick of those.

"Sir, you'd do your best not to insult a police officer. You are already being charged with assault resulting to damage of private property." The officer said curtly.

The man's lips parted as he tried to explain himself but was cut off when the police officer pulled at his forearm. His head turned to a new direction, and he caught a glimpse of an elderly man and a young girl cowering in a corner. Both of their eyes stared at him with a mix of emotions; fear, confusion, betrayal.

His eyes widened. He knew them.

And at the same thought, a realization struck him. He was aware that he _knew_  them, but he couldn't remember their names, or even _how_ he knew them.

He felt his stomach drop lower when a wave of other realizations suddenly hit him; He couldn't remember where he was, why he was being charged with assault, why he was hurt. He couldn't even remember _who_ he was.

"Officer, I-" He started to say just as they lead him to the car. Unfortunately the bright blue and red flashing lights caused him to hiss and squint, cutting himself off.

"Save it for the detectives, sir." The older man said while he pushed his head down slightly to make sure he didn't hit it on the roof of the car. The officer wanted to get the night over with, and he was no fan of the feather haired man he was arresting, but he clearly saw his injuries and didn't want to add any more. "We'll be taking you down to the station. We have medics to take care of your injuries. Then afterwards, you will have to talk to our detectives." He said slowly, then closed the back door of his car. 

The man's panic increased. He couldn't even remember his own _name._ How was he suppose to face a couple of detectives and convince them that he was innocent? 

The police officer soon sat himself down on the driver's seat, the fence like barrier in between them. He stared helplessly at his lap, his shoulders slumped as feelings of defeat and panic raged within him. He wished for only two things; either for the detectives to believe that he couldn't remember anything, or for his memory to come back before they get there. 

 

Both, he knew, were equally unlikely.


	2. Chapter 2

The man flinched every time the woman in front of him cleaned a cut. The medic was being as gentle as she could be; it was obvious with the slight shake of hesitation in her hand whenever she went to wipe at the blood. The man didn't mind it with the smaller cuts, but for the long ones along his back and arms he couldn't help but grit his teeth and hiss, recoiling just a bit.

But that wasn't what bothered him.

He still could not remember his own name. He was getting close—at least he thought he was. He knew it was a very common name, but there was still more than dozens of those. He wasn't sure which it could be, and it seemed like the harder he thought about it, the murkier his mind got.

And annoying as that was, it wasn't what bothered him.

No, what did however, is that the detectives didn't even wait long enough to let the medic in front of him finish her job. They entered just after the woman finished bandaging his back, and the clear sign of fear and panic that appeared on his face surely worked against his case.

As the medic continued to help his injuries, the man stared at the two—rather handsome—detectives. One was tall, at least almost a head taller than his partner. Both had brown hair, though one had his swept to the side and the other messily brushed back. Under the unflattering light that swallowed the dull room, both their eyes seemed to match the plain gray walls.

"What's your name, sir?" The taller one asked, his voice was deep and gravely, which shocked the injured man as the detective's face seemed rather childishly cute.

It was a simple question of course. One an innocent person would answer in a heartbeat, without stuttering. And the man would have too, if only he knew the answer.

He decided against being honest. Who would believe him anyway? An accused criminal saying they don't know their own name? It would simply look as if he decided on playing dumb in the worse possible way.

But as the shorter one slamed his palms against the steel table, so harshly that even the well-trained woman bandaging a cut on his thigh flinched, the man abandoned his decision and squeaked: "I don't know!"

It would have been funny seeing how the two detectives' eyebrows simultaneously furrowed in confusion, if only the man's freedom didn't dangle on a thin thread, he would have laughed. But before he could fix his blunt mistake, another officer came in. Her skin was dark and so was her expression, as she handed out a green backpack in her gloved hands.

"We found this in the crime scene, near where he was. It might be his." She said, and the taller one, whose hands were already gloved, took it from her.

"Thank you, Officer Hoover." He muttered and laid the bag down on the table as the officer left the room.

The feather haired man gulped, his eyes warily followed the backpack. He wasn't sure if it truly was his, but it seemed familiar, and that made him feel like it was.

It was then that the medic stood up and told him he was all fixed. He was quickly informed that he mostly had shallow cuts and bruises that should heal in a couple of days. But it wasn't her leaving that scared the man, it was the look of the shorter detective gave him right after that made him panic.

A look that said he had already decided that the man was guilty despite only having been in the room for ten minutes or maybe even less, really keeping time was the least of the man's worries.

"Is this yours?" The shorter detective asked, and since the man already blew his cover, he decided to go with the truth.

"I don't know." he snapped, the glare from both detectives almost made the words stay at his throat, but he knew he had to continue if he wanted to get out of here and head back home—that is if he could find his home. "Fuck. I'm not trying to play dumb, _I swear_. I don't remember anything—fuck that sounds bad." He rambled. He took in a deep slow breath before starting over again.

"I literally do not remember anything." He wanted to slap himself as soon as the words slipped from his mouth. He knew he just made things worse for himself.

The two detectives seemed frozen, looking at him as if he just insulted their intelligence, and maybe if he was actually lying he would be. But he wasn't. He was telling the truth, but didn't know how to make them believe him.

"This would be a lot easier on all of us if you just cooperate, Mister..." The shorter one said, obviously trying to get the man to say his own name willingly, but he couldn't.

His shoulders slumped in his seat, and if his hands weren't cuffed to the table, he would have thrown them up in complete frustration. "I told you, I don't fucking know my na-"

"Tomlinson." The taller one spoke, which caused the attention of the other two men in the room to turn to him. He had quietly, so quietly that neither noticed, went through the items in the bag. His hand held up a wallet as he glanced at the man. "Is that your name?" He asked, "Louis Tomlinson?"

The man's eyes widened,

_"What are you painting?" A woman's voice asked._

_"Dad slipping from a ladder." The small boy answered, his tiny finger covered in paint as he splattered it onto the paper._

_"That's a bit harsh, don't you think, dear?" The woman said as she laughed a little. "Did he do anything to you? Take away your candy? Change the channel on the telly?"_

_"No, mommy." The boy said, his brown hair fell to his face and he moved it with paint covered hands. "I just felt like I have to."_

_"Well, let's try painting nicer things. Let's not waste your talent, Louis."_

"Louis!" The man all but shouted, "Louis Tomlinson! Yes, that's my name!" He sounded too excited at the revelation, and it confused the two detectives. The man didn't care at all, though. At the sound of his name bits and pieces of his memory came back to him.

_Louis._

 

_Louis._

 

_Louis._

 

_"Nice to see you again, Louis." An elder man said._

Louis gasped at that memory. He knew he recognized the man at the store where he woke up. He knew he knows them but now he didn't know _how_ —but it didn't stop him from blurting it out in a hurry. "I know him!" He shouted, his free hand clawed through his hair in frustration.

"Mr. Tomlinson?" The shorter one spoke, for once he sounded unsure of himself. If he wasn't certain before that the man was stoned, he was now. But he knew he needed to continue the questioning for formalities. "Know who, Mr. Tomlinson?"

Louis had almost forgotten that the detectives were there, and he jumped a bit at the sound of the voice. His head snapped up, and with wide blue eyes he stared up at the two detectives. Both men were immediately confused as to how his eyes were clear and not bloodshot like it should be if he were under the influence of drugs.

"The man at the shop, a-and the little girl! That's his niece! A-at least, I _think_ she is." Louis' voice grew less frantic and more unsure as he spoke. What was happening, anyway? Why couldn't he remember anything properly?

The taller detective gathered his wits together first after Louis' outburst. He cleared his throat. "Yes, me and Mr. Horan here, my partner, have already talked to the two. We know you have been close to the witnesses, and they kept saying that you're usually a polite character." He stated slowly before he leaned forward, his eyes never left Louis' frustrated ones. "But seeing as you are being charged with assault, I don't think you were feeling _polite_ tonight."

"I don't understand-" Louis started, his teeth gritted in irritation that neither of them believed he doesn't remember a thing. "Why am being charged with assault?" He asked.

"You ran into the store, tackled a lady and practically threw her through the shop's window." The taller one said, face calm and unreadable, although admittedly, despite the seriousness of the case, he found a bit of humor in imagining such a small man could do such a thing.

"Given that the character witnesses we found all said you would never attack someone like that, we figured you might be under the influence of illegal medication. We have filed for a search warrant, and it has been approved. Your flat is being searched through as we speak." The smaller one—Detective Horan—explained further.

Louis didn't know if he was supposed to be worried or not. He didn't even remember where his flat was, much less if he had anything to hide.

Was he doing drugs? He didn't remember ever doing so, then again, he didn't remember anything at all.

Louis sagged back into the cold, uncomfortable metal seat in defeat. It wasn't like panicking would do him any good at this point, it would just make things worse.

The two detectives shared a confused glance. They weren't new to drug-related cases, but both were at a lost with this one.

The two detectives had guessed that Louis was under the influence of some sort of vice, but the man's clear eyes said otherwise. Maybe it was out of anger? Insanity? They didn't know.

But before any of the three in the room could voice out anything, a ringtone cut through the silence. The taller one reached into his pocket and took out his phone. Louis was mildly irritated at the sight of it as he didn't even remember if he had one of his own.

"Styles." The man said into the phone instead of a formal greeting. He nodded once as he listened, and Louis watched him.

He was familiar too. Somehow. Not in the same way he found the old man and his niece familiar, but still Louis was sure he knew him somehow.

He watched as the detective's eyebrows began to furrow, before he spoke up. "What do you mean? What did you find?" Styles asked the person on the other side of the line, which caused Louis to tense in his seat.

_What did they find?_

Styles nodded again before he bid the person goodbye and placed his phone back in his pocket.

"We need to go, now." Styles said to his partner, which made Horan even more confused, and Louis beyond nervous. The taller detective's cold eyes locked onto Louis' small frame again "And we need to bring him. He has some explaining to do."

 

  
~*~

 

 

Louis hated being watched, and he knew he was now. The two burning pair of eyes from the detectives went through him as he stood in what, supposedly, was his flat.

But it didn't look like one. It resembled an art gallery more than it did someone's home.

_Paintings_. Paintings in every corner, hanging on the walls, low and high, scattered on the floor, stacked up in corners or on top of small tables and dressers. Some were unfinished and others were already faded from age.

Louis was more than confused. He remembered that he can paint, but not painting as many as what was in his apartment. He also didn't understand why the two detectives were seemingly burning with rage.

"I live here?" Was the first thing he said, his eyes glanced at every painting he could see, and was shocked to see them all rather violent and saddening. His face morphed into one of disgust, he couldn't believe he lived in such a dark place.

"Drop the act, who the hell are you?" Horan snapped. His eyes, that Louis now realized are blue and not gray like the interrogation room, glared right at him.

He didn't know what the detective meant. "I'm Louis?" He answered sarcastically as he placed one hand on his hip and raised an eyebrow. His tone caused the blue-eyed detective to snap.

Horan aggressively grabbed one of the paintings on the table; it was scene of a jewelry store seemingly in shambles as a masked man was drawn running out. He pushed it close to Louis' face, close enough to make him lean back to avoid getting smacked.

"This," the detective hissed through gritted teeth "was a robbery that happened a few weeks ago." He grabbed another one, this time of a house on fire. "This was arson committed a week ago!" He pointed from one painting to the next. "A rape and murder case a month ago. Mugging just yesterday. Public disturbance a couple months back—hell! There's Mr. and Mrs. Green, domestic abuse, over a year ago!" He practically yelled, the other officers searching Louis' flat all froze at the detective's rant. Their curious eyes locked on Louis.

Horan's blue eyes narrowed at Louis, who tried his best to seem unbothered despite feeling nervous. "Who the fuck are you?" The detective asked again.

Louis looked around the room, he glanced at the paintings in hidden panic and tried so desperately to remember who he was before he woke up in that store. Clearly he wasn't an ordinary person if he painted all these crimes. Was he some obsessed fan of tragedy? A tortured artist that took his high in painting the suffering and chaos in the world? Or was he—

"You know something about these crimes, don't you?" Horan insisted and threw the two paintings he held down to the floor. "Were you the one responsible for them? Are you behind all this shit and get kicks out of painting them?" The detective continued, and it didn't seem as though he planned on stopping his accusations, but his partner cut him off.

The tall man bent down to where his partner dropped the two paintings, and he spoke. "Niall, I don't think that's the case here." Styles said, not that it made Louis worry any less.

"What are you on about, Styles?" Niall snapped, eyes never left the man who looked as if nothing was bothering him.

"Look at the date on this one." Styles said as he pointed to the back of the canvas where the ruined jewelry store was painted on. "It was made two years ago, that shop didn't even exist yet."

Niall scoffed. "As if you can't fake that. He could have painted it recently and wrote a different date, it's not that hard." He said, and as much as Louis wanted to prove he was innocent, he had to admit the shorter detective had a point.

Still, Niall's partner didn't look convinced. "I'm no expert on paint, but this looks pretty old. We should get it checked out first by someone before jumping to any bizarre conclusions." Styles said and eyed his partner who seemed to have calmed down from his weird outburst.

It made no sense to anyone in the room why Niall seemed so worked out about the paintings all of a sudden. This was a rather creepy case, everyone had to admit, but not worth the amount of anger the detective displayed.

But it wasn't everyday one sees a painting of their old life that crashed and burned, stashed away at the corner of some dusty apartment.

Louis felt relieved though, and grateful for the taller detective who seemed to be significantly calmer than his partner. At least he had not been breathing down his neck the entire time. So when Louis asked his next question, he aimed it at him. "So does this mean I'm not going back to the station?"

There was pity in the man's green eyes. Truthfully, Styles didn't believe this man was guilty of anything. He didn't exactly know why, but maybe it was because he found it hard to believe that a man like him, who seemed so fragile and confused the entire time, could commit any sort of crime.

But nonetheless, he was loyal to his job. "I'm afraid you still have to, Mr. Tomlinson." Styles started. He watched the man's shoulders deflate in hopelessness. "You may not be seen guilty yet for any of these crimes, but unfortunately you are still charged with assault, and we have plenty of solid evidence against you."

Louis nodded, although all he wanted was to spend time alone in his apartment. He wanted to look around more, and sleep in his own bed with hopes that the familiarity of the place would jog his memory to perfect shape. But it wasn't like he could fight the two detectives, and the numerous other cops in the premises. He knew he was somehow in a lot of trouble already, and defying their orders would only make it worse for him.

"I understand." He barely mumbled, not wanting to admit defeat. Maybe he'd get sleep at the holding cell, maybe that rest would be enough to make his brain function properly.

Niall turned to the other police officers who were looking around the room. "Anything besides these creepy paintings?" He asked.

One of the officers, a tall balding man, shook his head. "No sign of anything illegal sir. No drugs or weapons or anything, really." He reported.

Styles nodded back at him as if thanking the man, before he directed his stare to his partner. "Alright then, let's take him back to the station, then bring some of these up to an expert." He gestured to the paintings. "See if they can tell how old they are."

Niall nodded, and moved to hold onto Louis' forearm but stopped when a voice deeper in the apartment called out. "Detectives! You might wanna see this!"

The two shared a look before they glanced at Louis, who failed to hide his horrified expression in time.

_What the hell could they have found now?_ He wondered.

The three of them walked through the place, almost tip toeing around all the paintings. Niall scoffed, "How the bloody hell did you even manage to live here?"

Louis wondered that himself. There barely seemed to be any space to walk around in without bumping into the scattered canvasses. Then there was the issue of mountains of dust covering every surface they could reach.

The trio reached the room where the man's voice came from, and it made Louis' eyes widen. The sight of the room triggered something.

_"Louis." The elderly woman said, her voice hoarse from all the pleading. "Louis, please. Please stop these paintings. They only cause harm to everyone."_

_But Louis didn't stop. His frantic hands kept moving the brush onto the canvas, his blue eyes void of emotion. It was like he_ had _to paint these things._

_"Louis, please, leave this room. Let's go for a walk at the park? Do you not miss your own mum?" The woman pleaded again, but her begging only fell on deaf ears, and she had enough of it._

_Watching her son painting yet another horrible tragedy snapped something in her. She left her spot from the entrance of the room and marched up to Louis, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "God, what have they done to you?"_

"I know this room!" Louis blurted out, his heart raced inside his chest. He remembered a bit more now. He remembered painting a lot in that room, remembered barely eating or sleeping at some points in his life just to paint image after image after image. "I-I painted most of these here." He said, while he gestured to all the paintings around him as best as he could with his hands both cuffed together.

However, everyone in the room ignored his outburst. They were all too busy staring with wide, shocked eyes at the paintings that lined the walls.

Louis noticed this and glanced at the paintings, but couldn't tell what it was about them that made everyone go still. They looked like all the others; like a crime illustrated with so much detail.

"What the fuck?" Styles lost his calm composure for the first time as he glanced between the paintings and Louis over and over, before his green eyes finally locked on the small man. "Why are _we_ in these?" The detective asked, confusion and shock displayed all over his face.

It was then that Louis noticed the difference with the paintings in the room and the paintings scattered through out the rest of his flat. In every painting in that particular room, the two detectives were seen.

It wasn't much into specifics, but the height, hair, eyes, even the way the two men in the paintings seem to hold themselves resembled the two detectives with him—hell, Styles was sure that majority of the clothes painted on the man on the canvas was also in his closet.

Louis knew he seemed familiar, could he have known the detective before and painted him? But then, if that _was_ the case why didn't Styles remember him?

"I- I don't know." He managed to push out. Something inside him hated how he much he had stuttered through the night, he knew at the back of mind that he wasn't normally like this—at least he hoped he wasn't—but the situation he was in was terrifying to say the least. To be accused of so many crimes and not even know the slightest bit about himself.

"You just said you know this room." Niall cut in, more than disturbed seeing himself in the tragic paintings. It was odd really. He remembered some of the scenes, murders on this street, mugging in another, from different times. But some of them...some of them he hasn't even seen. Some have names or buildings that the detective didn't recognize at all. Some showcased people he knew but was sure have never been in any crime whether as the attacker or the victim.

It sent chills down his spine, and truthfully, down everyone else' who saw the paintings.

But there was one in specific that made Niall's blood run cold.

"Harry, mate," the shorter detective called out as a lump in his throat formed.

This caught Styles' attention, and he turned his gaze towards his partner who called him. He noticed Niall's frozen gaze and follows it, only for his own body to tense at the sight. "Is that..."

Louis didn't know what to say. They all knew what it was. The details of it, the violent splashes of red that stained the canvas and the unmistakable resemblance it held to one of the detectives. There was no other way to look at it.

It was a painting of Detective Harry Styles bleeding to death.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for giving lil' ol' me some of your time. I'll try not to disappoint :)

Louis felt all eyes on him now. All of them expected an answer of some sort to leave his lips, but nothing came. It felt as if he had lost his voice the moment he saw the painting.

_Because he remembered it._

He remembered painting that one, quite a long time ago. He remembered crying as his hands added more and more of the red paint. He remembered feeling torn apart as he drew the man's face twisted in agony. He remembered trying to stop himself, or alter the picture that was being brought to life, but like with the other paintings, he couldn't. He painted the image in his mind as it was, unable to change any detail no matter how minuscule it was.

And he remembered why.

Because finally, he remembered who he is. _What_ he is.

But Louis didn't tell the detectives that. He didn't tell them while they were in his flat, and even more so now that they were glaring at him from the other side of the jail cell.

He was a mess of emotions now: fear, annoyance, anger.

He was scared. He was scared just as he had been all his life. The brief lapse in his memory tonight had been unknowingly welcomed. For a couple of hours, the crippling fear that consumed him every minute was forgotten, but now that he remembered what he really is, it all came back at once. He felt as if he was drowning in it.

Louis was also annoyed. Annoyed at the fact that he was in a holding cell with two detectives, who didn't even have the slightest clue as to what they were dealing with. That, and the sudden thought that the longer he was trapped behind bars, the more time _that woman_ could plan to hurt the people close to him.

At that moment though, it was anger that consumed Louis the most. Anger at the fact that he was arrested for something that he did in order to protect the ones close to him. He was angry at the two detectives for thinking that he did something wrong, when all he wanted to do—hell, all has ever done in his life—was keep the world from collapsing.

Louis sat back and glared at the two detectives, wanting to cuss them out despite the fact that he was literally behind bars at the moment. He wasn't worried though, now that his mind finally snapped back to normal, he had his ability back. He knew he could easily escape the moment those two leave, which shouldn't be that long if he wasn't mistaken.

And he wasn't.

Not a minute after he had thought of it, a police officer calls for the detectives. They respond. They then quickly made sure Louis' cell was locked, and gave him a stern look. "Don't try anything." Harry had warned him, but Louis replied with nothing but a cold glare.

The two finally left, and Louis sprung to his feet in a split second, and walked calmly towards the lock.

The officer that had called the two detectives was currently on a phone with an art expert. At least, that was Louis' guess. And after all of these years with his experience, he knew his _guesses_ were almost always correct.

In his mind he thought of all the things the detectives would need to talk about over the phone, and he calculated the time it would take them to do so. In less than ten seconds, Louis had already calculated how much time he had left—which was more than enough time for him to escape.

Louis easily slid out a safety pin from the back of his joggers, glad that none of the officers had noticed it. He had placed it there before because the garter of his joggers began to felt loose already, but turns out it came even more handy now. He held up his pants with one hand while the other slipped easily through the bars, and reached for the lock. Louis smiled.

It was too easy.

It didn't take him long before the lock clicked open. Being what he was and all the shit he's gone through—it was a curse, but it had its upsides too. A silver lining, if you would.

He calmly slid the bars open, as he  slipped out with ease and placed the pin around his pants again. It wasn't the most effective way to hold up one's pants, but Louis was grateful that that's what he had went with.

Calmly, without one sense of rushing in his body, Louis walked towards the front door, leaned against the wall to keep himself hidden, and took a small peek at what was going on at the front of the station.

His blue eyes glanced around the room, his mind calculated everything already. He took note of everyone's place, movement, attitude. Every tiny detail, from the interior of the place, to the position of even the smallest objects scattered on every desk, was accounted. And Louis just smiled.

The closest man near Louis was middle-aged. The man's eyes drooped from exhaustion and boredom. One glance at his desk and it wouldn't take someone like Louis to know that his job was to merely sort through the paperwork. A name plate stood at the side of his desk with the words " _Robert Santilian_ " engraved on it, but it was clear the metal object was only there to give the poor man some feeling of importance, while he worked through his unexciting job.

But that played for Louis' benefit.

It was as if Louis saw everything in slow motion. Robert began to lean towards the back of his chair, just as Louis predicted. The man rubbed his eyes with the side of his fist, before he leaned further and stretched.

Louis moved, not a half second too late or too early, as Robert's eyes closed and his mouth opened in a yawn. Louis immediately ducked down in front of the man's desk. Hidden from everyone in the room.

It took about four seconds before another person's voice was heard. "Robert!" It said, voice slightly pitchy. Louis already knew exactly who it was and what they wanted.

Louis saw him a while ago on his initial glance around the room: a clumsy, fidgeting teenager. When he had studied the station, Louis saw the teen photocopying papers, which of course he knew would be given to the guy who handled the paper work.

He listened carefully, and heard Robert snap at the kid waiting for the sound of his cue: papers thrown in the air by the frustrated, tired man.

Louis got up from his position, and calmly strode across the room towards an empty cubicle. He knew no one would pay attention to him, everyone's eyes locked on the clumsy teen who tripped over a forgotten pencil on the floor when Robert snapped at him. He almost snickered.

Louis was almost out, just waiting for his last cue before he could slip out of where he was hiding. He heard the sob of a woman, and he got ready.

He peeked a little from the wall of the cubicle to see the small group of four near where he hid. They were talking to who must have been a secretary in the place, judging from the fact that he was sitting at the front desk.

Louis heard the secretary apologizing to the sobbing woman in the small group, something about no updates on a robbery case. He waited with a bored expression as he casually shifted his weight from one leg to another. His time was running down as the woman continued to sob in front of the secretary, who obviously did not know how to tell the group to leave.

Louis started to bite his nails. His time was dwindling down to a dangerously low number. It was the first time he found himself annoyed that his ability got something wrong. His nervous eyes kept glancing at the detectives on the other side of the station.

Just as Louis saw the two detectives hanging up the phone, the small group finally convinced the sobbing woman that bawling in the station was futile.

They began to file out with somber expressions. Just as they pass near the cubicle, Louis slipped out with them. His head titled slightly down and his hands in his pocket. Posture casual enough for the group not to pay mind to him, but seemed disappointed enough for everyone else to assume he was part of the small group.

Once out of the station, Louis quickly side stepped into the alley right next to the building, and smirked smugly at his escape. _As if a holding cell could keep me in,_ he thought as he began to walk away, his hands casually in his pockets.

He passed by a window of the station, multiple scenarios flashed by his eyes and his lips slightly tipped up to one side. He nonchalantly bent down and picked up a small, damp rock on the side of the alley, before he stared up at the window again. He took a few small steps back before he raised his hand with the rock clasped in it. He didn't need much time to adjust himself for the right angle; he had, after all, done this plenty of times before. Louis easily propelled the rock at the open window and didn't wait to hear the short-circuiting equipment anymore, he already knew he hit his target.

It's been a long time since he used his ability for his own benefit; since the last time he thought of it as anything other than a curse to carry until he died. It was a good thought; that this ability of his could be beneficial, but Louis was still sure that he'd much rather live without it. He wouldn't even need to break out of yet another police station if his body wasn't tampered with when he was a child.

He walked carelessly through the streets of Manhattan, both hands in the pocket of his loose joggers as he hummed a random tune. It was around two or three in the morning, he guessed, but the streets were anything but silent. He still heard the loud bass from the clubs that he passed by, the slurred laughter and catcalls by drunks along the street, and the occasional stray cats that fought it out in an alley near by.

It didn't bother Louis though. As he passed by he saw everything _and more_ , a part of his ability that he had yet to learn how to control. He saw every single detail of every street he walked through, and along with that he saw everything that would happen in it minutes or years from now. He read every person he passed, and saw everything that could happen to them.

His fingers twitched, begging to paint everything he saw. His spine straightened as he suppressed the urge, one part of his ability that he did have control over now. He saw everything, and when he was younger his body forced him to paint all of it; letting the world know what would happen. And he couldn't make his hands change even the smallest of details.

But now he learned how to control it, his level of self-restraint developed after years of tying himself up to his bed in order to not paint anymore gruesome scenes. Back then he thought that was the end of it; that if he didn't paint anything then none of the bloody visions would come true.

Louis chuckled bitterly as he remembered how naïve he was back then.

The sudden blare of red and blue lights cut his thoughts off, and made his heart drop. His mind suddenly remembered why he was arrested tonight.

_No_ , he thought. _No, I can't be too late_.

 

 

  
~*~

 

 

  
"What the hell do you mean you didn't see him leave?!" Detective Niall Horan's voice echoed throughout the station as he glared down at the middle-aged man. He didn't know how a full grown man could leave the station without even one person noticing him—hell, _nobody_ had a clue how that happened.

Niall's partner, Detective Harry Styles himself, was one of the people completely baffled by it. But unlike his fellow detective, Styles didn't think shouting at a poor man just sick of his job would help them in any way.

Of course, nobody needed to be a detective to know the first thing they had to do was check the surveillance footage, and they weren't fools. They already tried that but everything in the security room seemed to have died for no reason. None of the equipment was working at all, one screen even looked like it spontaneously cracked.

Frustrated, Harry reached over into his coat's pocket, and clenched his fists around the yellow stress ball his sister had gotten him for his birthday. He really didn't need more things on his plate. He thought they were just assigned to yet another drug user case and that it'd be over in a week's time.

Now he felt like he's after some De Vinci's _bullshit_ with all the paintings and future telling and disappearing acts. He didn't even know how to file this case in, much less explain it to his boss. They wouldn't believe him, and they didn't even have a suspect to at least _try_ to make them believe him.

He let out a long sigh, and moved towards the metal bars once again to inspect them. His partner was still yelling in the background, but he tuned him out. His green eyes focused as he glanced at each bar of the holding cell. There must have been one broken, right? How else could his little criminal have gotten out?

"Detectives?" A sudden voice rung out. Harry kept his attention on the metal bars, but responded anyway.

"Yes?" Harry barely huffed out, his lips almost didn't even move.

"There was just a robbery on Gray Street and—"

"Get another unit to respond to that, we already have a case to work on." Harry heard Niall's voice snap. He didn't say anything, but he silently agreed.

"But that's the thing, Detective Horan," The officer's voice is heard again, her words calm but her tone hinted the presence of her annoyance. "The robbery was at the same shop you found the Painting Man. It was broken into again, just a few minutes ago. We got a call from someone near by. Said he heard shouting and gun shots"

As the officer spoke Harry grabbed onto the bars again and shook them as hard as he could. They didn't budge just like the last time he tried. With a sigh, he gave up on them, he came to terms that all of the bars were in the same state that they always have been in, and their suspect had gotten out some other way.

"Who the hell came up with 'Painting Man'?" His partner snapped.

"Well the news stations alread—"

"No time for that. Obviously our _Painting Man_ went back to the scene of the crime to finish something." Harry cut them off as he walked passed the two. He noticed he couldn't hear the sound of another set of steps beside that of his boots that clicked against the tiled floor.

"Niall, come on we have to go." He called out when he realized his partner wasn't at his side.

Harry hurried out of the station and quickly got into their assigned car. He started it just as the passenger door opened and in came his grumbling partner. "Where did that man even get a fucking gun? Fucking witchy magic tricks. What the fuck." Niall grumbled under his breath, all the while getting his phone out as it rang in his pocket.

"Horan." Niall spoke into the device as Harry drove quickly, but carefully, through the empty streets.

"You have to be joking!" Niall snapped at the person on the line. Harry strained his ears to hear the other side of the conversation, but the best he could make out was muffled gibberish. He heard Niall sigh and saw him pinch the bridge of his nose. "Okay, yeah. Thanks for the help." He hung up the call and pursed his lips.

"You're never going to believe this, Styles." He said, pocketing his phone. "The paintings are _exactly_ as old as the dates written on them." He grumbled.

Harry felt a chill run down his spine at the revelation. Were they actually dealing with some sort of creepy thriller movie bullshit? Or was someone messing with them as a prank. He hoped it was the latter one. He already had enough drama for one lifetime. Both of them have.

He stayed silent. And the only thing heard in the car was the hum of the AC and their breathing. That is, until Niall grumbled under his breath again. "I don't know if we should hire a priest now or later."

Harry let out one quick laugh before they arrived at their destination. Other police cars already there, and two ambulances—the sight of which made Harry's stomach turn. He never liked seeing those in crime scenes, they always meant bad news.

"Well if we're lucky maybe we'd catch that irritable man and get some actual answers tonight." Harry told his partner as he got out of the car, Niall following right after him. "Although, let's save the priest plan, _just in case_." He half-joked as they slammed the car doors shut.

Being detectives, both Niall and Harry were used to seeing victims' bodies all bloodied up and limp. Hell, both of them have seen at least one person they loved in that state. But nothing would ever make them used to it, and it was much worse whenever the victim was an innocent, young child.

Harry's green eyes landed on the small girl on the floor, bullet wound right at her temple, and a paramedic grimly shaking his head by the body's side. He felt his heart speed up. In a matter of seconds bile rose in his throat and anger rushed through his blood. In his head, an image flashed quickly of a different little girl; this one with fair skin and curly blonde hair, lying dead in the same manner. He heard the screams once again, felt the same heavy feeling of loss once more.

_He was about to break_.

Until he felt a hand lightly hold onto his shoulder. The touch brought him back to the present, the image of his daughter gone, and he was once again staring at the body of a child he never met. Harry turned his head to the side to find Niall, who looked upon him with sympathy. "I'll take this one, mate. You should go to the store and see what you can find." Niall told him, his voice noticeably calmer than it was when he was grumbling in the car a few moments ago.

Harry didn't speak, but nodded his head and walked away from the horrible sight. He reached into his coat pocket and once again aggressively squeezed the stress ball hidden there. He silently made his way to the wrecked building. His boots crunched the broken glass that littered the entrance way of the shop, and he wondered what was so special about it that the man—their so called Painting Man—wanted to trash it so badly.

"Detective Styles," An officer greeted him by what used to be the entrance of the shop, but was now merely a busted-in hole. "Officer Branwell, I was first to respond to the call." He introduced himself.

Harry scanned the man quickly, and figured he was somewhat in his late thirties, but then again most police officers look older than they actually were due to the stress that comes with the job. Harry ignored the man's greeting and got to the point immediately. "Can you tell me what happened? Where's the girl's parents?" He questioned.

"Actually, according to the neighbors, Lea—the little girl—lived with her grandfather. Her mother died giving birth, and her father got mugged and murdered by a bar years ago. She stayed with her grandfather who ran this shop...or at least, he _used to_ before now." He explained quickly, as the detective slowly moved around the trashed store.

Harry hid his impatience well, his hand in his coat tightening around the small toy hidden there. "Okay, and where is the grandfather?" He pushed on.

"Dead. Found his body over there," Officer Branwell pointed to a wall near the cash register with blood splattered on it. "And the little girl's body was found there." He pointed to a different spot, closer to the doorway. The sight of the blood there made Harry look away after a second of glancing at it. He gave his full attention back to the officer as the man continued explaining. "The security footage is gone, bullet right through the computer and the camera itself, we have no idea where to start with this case."

Harry grit his teeth. _What was it with security equipment getting destroyed left and right tonight?_ He wondered.

"The register's empty, yes?" Harry asked, green eyes still jumped around the crime scene.

"Yeah, completely cleaned out." Officer Branwell replied.

"So obviously a robbery then." Harry spoke, almost mechanically, "Probably took the little girl as hostage considering that she was near the entrance and where the bullet wound was located. Shot the man, and the security equipment after the money was in their possession to leave no witness."

But as the words slipped passed his lips, something just didn't seem right to him. Why would that man be so desperate to rob _this_ shop specifically? From what the little girl and old man said before, they seemed to have been in good terms with their runaway, so why did he kill them? Why rob them? His apartment wasn't run down, and if it wasn't so overflowing with gruesome paintings, it would have been just as decent as Harry's own flat. So he couldn't be poor enough to need money that bad.

_So then...why?_ Harry Styles wondered.

His train of thought came to a halt as his eyes caught a sudden movement in the crowd that had gathered.

His green eyes widened as his body moved before it even properly registered in his mind what he was doing. His body moved on instinct as soon as he realized who he saw. He was determined not to let him get away this time.

He broke into a sprint just as the man's body turned and moved through the unsuspecting crowd behind the police tape. Harry ducked down underneath the barrier and the confused civilians quickly made way for him.

He glanced around, adrenaline pumping in his blood. For a moment, he thought he lost his suspect. Until he saw movement from his right and spotted a body quickly running into an alley. He followed without thinking, legs moving as fast as they could.

It didn't take much to catch on to the small man. And Harry was a bit surprise, but more suspicious, as to why it seemed too easy.

But he was never one to question blessings. His arms wrapped around the man's waist as he tackled him down to the ground. Slightly out of breath he spoke, "And where the _hell_ do you think you're going, Tomlinson?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kudos and comments always get me so giddy! Thank you so much for your kind words and I'll try not to mess up!
> 
> I'm also about to start my double masters, so I can't really give a solid update schedule. I'll just be popping in with new chapters at random times.

Hysteria. It was the only thing Louis Tomlinson could feel at that point.

_They were dead._

_They were dead._

_They were dead._

The words echoed harshly in Louis' mind.

_I was too late._

Everything went wrong at a pace too fast for Louis to keep up. He was confused, heart-broken, angry, and terrified.

Louis continued gasping for air, despite his breath that hitched at his throat every few seconds. He was helpless as tears endlessly streamed down his cheeks.

Louis didn't mind the bruises and cuts on his skin; neither the ones he got earlier that night, nor the ones that were inflicted on him when his body was tackled down. He didn't mind the awful stench of the alleyway either. He didn't care about the angry detective that was still pinning him down, despite his lack of resistance.

All that ran through his head was that the only two people he had considered family in such a long time were dead. And he was was being accused for their murders.

Of course, there was also the issue of his face and paintings that were now broadcasted for everyone to see.

Louis knew then.

_He knew_ they _were coming for him_.

His mind was a mess, and he couldn't focus on anything as he was pinned to the dirty cement. His thoughts zoomed from one place to another, but he managed to get three words out in his hysteria. "She was blonde."

The words obviously baffled Harry, the detective's grip faltered. Louis felt it, the sudden looseness on Harry's hold on him, he could have escaped then. He should have escaped then. But he didn't. He couldn't. He didn't see the point anymore.

He was going to be arrested for the murder of the two people he truly cared about, yet he wasn't worried about jail. It wouldn't take long for news of his case, along with his face and paintings, to get out of the city. And they would know where he is.

Then he'll be stuck with _them_ again.

A different kind of prison. One that was much worse than anything the cops could throw him into.

But before that could happen, before he was once again enslaved, he wanted to at least get justice for Lea and Chris. It was the least he could do for the sweet old man and his granddaughter. "She was blonde," Louis tried again when he realized Harry was listening. "The woman was blonde."

At that moment the detective's instinct and mind struggled to gain control over the situation. Harry knew protocol called for him to bring the suspect immediately to the station before asking any questions, but his gut begged him to hear the man out. He was lost, but soon remembered that he already made the mistake of ignoring his intuitions before, and _that_ resulted in something that haunted him to present day.

The images of a little girl lying dead in a pool of her own blood threatened to take over the detective's mind. He swallowed thickly, and shook his head to clear it.

"What woman?" Harry decided to ask, but made sure to maintain his hold.

The detective's voice broke through the fog of panic in Louis' head, and he struggled to halt his crying in order to respond. "The one who murdered them," he managed to gasp out in between his broken breathing. "S-she was blonde."

Louis' face was still pushed into the cement, but even without looking he knew the detective had a skeptical look on his face. He knew he wouldn't believe him so easily. He was proven right when Harry spoke up again. "And how do you know that?" Disbelief already tainted the detective's voice.

"Because I painted it this morning." Louis snapped, his voice harsh. He knew that he was telling the truth but at the same time, he was also sure that the detective wouldn't believe him.

Fortunately, we was wrong.

_The paintings are exactly as old as the dates written on them_.

Niall's words suddenly rang in Harry's head so loud that the detective was almost certain Louis could hear it too.

If Harry's guts hadn't already screaming for him to trust Louis before, they certainly were then. But he couldn't just ignore protocol, could he? He was a detective, one of the best in the state at that. He didn't get to where he was now by breaking the rules that were carved into his brain.

With a clenched jaw and an internal argument still raging in his head, Detective Styles heaved himself off Louis. He pulled on Louis' arm, that he still held onto, to help to the man to his feet as well.

"I'm taking you back to the station, you can tell me more of what you know when we get there." Harry said, and Louis weakly nodded his head once to let the detective know he was listening.

Louis felt resigned. He knew, even without using his ability, that they would find him at the station. They'd have every right to take him with them, and no one would be able to stop them. He'd be force back into the same retched routine, and would once again be forced to be responsible for even more deaths.

With Harry's hand still locked onto Louis' arm, the pair started to head back the direction they came from. Louis' crying hadn't ceased, but they slowed to a few occasional sniffles here and there. It was all they heard as they walked through the empty alley.

Louis decided to keep his head hung low. To the detective, it merely seemed like an attempt to hide his fragile state, but in reality, Louis just wanted to keep his eyes closed to avoid seeing his surroundings, and knowing what would inevitably happen to him soon. He was tired of knowing what happens next, and he sealed his eyes so he didn't have to see his freedom ripped away so soon. He blindly let the detective lead him along with the man's grip on his aching arm.

It didn't take them long to reach the opening of the alley. Soon, lights flashed against Louis' closed eyelids, and sirens hit his ears. The dread that settled in his stomach felt heavier than ever, and it dropped further, right to the ground, when he heard the detective speak. "That's strange." Louis heard, not wanting to risk it, he clenched his eyes shut tighter.

"What's strange?" He couldn't help but ask, tilting his head to the side where he knew the detective was.

"Th- why the fuck are your eyes closed?" Harry couldn't help but blurt out in confusion. Seeing CIA agents scurrying around their crime scene, acting like civilians, baffled him enough to let his professionalism slip.

"I hit something on the ground when you tackled me down." The lie went passed Louis' lips without a thought, the last thing he was worried about now was whether or not it made sense to the detective. "Now, what's strange?" He pushed, the heavy thudding of his heart was proof of his nerves.

_They couldn't be here yet. They just can't._

Yet his stomach tying itself into knots told him otherwise. They can actually be here; with their money, their resources, and the government backing them up, it wasn't impossible. Even when it's barely been a couple of hours, Louis knew they were capable of it. But he didn't want it to be true. If they were in fact here already, then his freedom and light conscience were now a thing of the past.

The detective didn't know what it was that made his stomach turn as well; all he knew was something wasn't right. It was a simple homicide case, with clear motive; this one was definitely an easy solve for them. Why would higher-ups get involved now?

And then realization hits him, his grip tightened on Louis' arm causing the man to flinch. But the harshness of his hold wasn't out of malice, Harry only did it to reassure himself that the man he held was real, and that he wasn't just stuck in some sort of nightmare—although admittedly, a large part of him hoped it was only dream. The last thing he wanted was to be involved with CIA agents _again_.

But as his hand felt the flesh of Louis' arm, he knew it wasn't a dream. Louis was real. And the situation was real.

Those assholes weren't there for the case, obviously. _They were there for Louis._

Harry was half ready to march up with the man at hand and readily give him up to the agents. He wanted no part of the drama that was inevitably approaching them. He was just about to do so—until he spared one glance over at the man beside him.

Harry saw the man's cowering hunched frame and quivering lip, no trace of the snappy attitude that was present just mere hours before. He paused. His eyes glanced from the dark-haired man to the CIA agents marching around trying to blend into the crowd while gathering information.

Harry's eyes locked onto one agent specifically, red hair bright in the night. He watched as agent walked around like he didn't know he was in the same city as Harry—or rather, as the same city where he _destroyed_ Harry's life. The detective's blood boiled as memories came crashing down around him.

From his past experience, Harry could confidently say that CIA agents weren't really on top of his trustworthy list.

"What do they want with you?" Harry asked. He kept his voice down as he made them both take a couple of steps back, now hiding in the alley.

The words confirmed what Louis feared and he couldn't help the chocked sob that escaped when he tried to answer at first. "To use me of course." He managed. Making sure to keep his eyes closed still.

The detective studied Louis, not finding a single give-away that he was lying. Not with his body language, his words, even with his strange adamance on keeping his eyes closed.

Harry might not have had the best record when it came to character judgment, but he couldn't ignore what he saw in Louis. As he watched the man now, their _Painting Man_ , he didn't see malicious, manipulative, or dangerous. He saw scared, traumatized, and blameless.

And _irritating_. Definitely irritating.

But blameless nonetheless.

He moved his head out of the alley, his mind going a mile a minute as he studied the CIA agents once again. In them he saw malicious, manipulative, and dangerous. He knew those people didn't give a shit about the greater good, he's worked with them before.

The choice was clear, but it was anything but easy.

With his body tight with conflict, Harry held onto Louis' forearm and ran—to Louis' surprise—further into the alley, were they just came from. The detective's mind was made up in a split-second.

With nothing more than the words "Come with me," they were off into the night.

No plan. No destination. No clue as to what would happen next.

All Louis Tomlinson knew was that running wouldn't do him any good, not when they were this close to his tail. But he'd do anything for even a few more hours of freedom.

And all Harry Styles knew was that he was not about to let another innocent life be taken by those assholes.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

"Are you daft?!" Harry hissed at Louis as they argued in front of a motel. "You've got the CIA after you, and you want to check us in with _your_ name? We might as well just hand you over right now!"

Louis, who now had Harry's tie wrapped around his eyes to keep them shielded, followed the sound of the Detective's voice, only to grab the front of Harry's shirt and yank him down to his height. "We both know they'll find us here anyway, sooner or later. It'd be better for the both of us if they don't know you're associated with me." He whispered harshly, trying not to attract attention. With his sight blocked, Louis didn't notice the streets were empty—not like he would have risked speaking any louder even he had seen that they were alone.

Harry's brows furrowed, but decided not to argue further when he realized Louis was right. This way, he could walk out and leave the man in this mess whenever he wanted to. Of course, he doubted his conscience would ever allow him that option, but it was comforting to know he had a way out.

The detective freed himself from Louis' grip, and attempted to straighten his shirt while he responded. "Fine," he bit, "But how are you supposed to go in there with my tie 'round your eyes?" He questioned and thought for a second he finally bested the other man, until Louis merely shrugged.

Even with his ability nulled, Louis still knew how things worked around him. He had enough experience of running around to know a couple of things about life on the streets. "Simple, I go in there with your tie around my eyes." Louis repeated the detective's words back to him.

Before Harry could cope with his confused state, Louis already made his way in the rotting building. He used his hands in front of him to find the door's handle and push it open, hearing a bell ring to signal his arrival. He stood still for a while, hands in front of him as he wondered where the front desk was.

A gruff voice spoke up to his aid. "Straight forward, sir." The man at the front desk said, leading Louis to follow the instructions.

He let the door slam close behind him as he walked until his hands hit the desk, the man eyed him with raised brows but didn't ask any questions. Louis' nose caught the smell of what seemed to be week old pizza, but decided to ignore it. "Room for two then?" Louis heard the man ask.

"Yeah. Two nights." Louis replied, knowing fully well two nights was already a stretch. The man placed the room key on the desk just as the door opened behind them. Louis was sure it was Harry, so no panic was sparked within him.

He quietly held the key in his hand, tracing the number embossed on it with his thumb. "Put us under Louis. Also, he's paying." Louis told the man he couldn't see as he nudged his thumb to his side when he felt the detective's presence.

"The hell—"

"You still have my wallet and bag back at _your place_ , remember?" Louis hissed, making Harry clench his jaw when he remembered they kept his belongings at the station after his initial arrest.

"Right. How much would that be?" Harry said. His body was tight with irritation with the impulsive man, who always seemed to have the upper hand on him even with the smallest of arguments.

"70$" The gruff man says, which made Harry's jaw drop at the price.

"For such a filthy place like this?!"

Louis left the two men to argue. He used his hands to once again find his way out as he heard Harry try to haggle with the guy that smelled like rotting cheese. Their voices cut off when the door closed shut behind him.

He walked along the walls, his hand dragged across the faded paint. He counted the number of times his hand ran over the surface of a door, and at the fourth one he prayed he hadn't made a mistake and wouldn't end up walking into a room with some pervert and a payed hooker.

"Seventy fucking dollars for an infested motel room!" Harry's voice reached him just as he successfully opened the door. The detective had no trouble finding their room, but he was awed at how Louis was able to get there in one piece. "How did you even—"

"It's not the first time I had to walk around blindfolded." He snapped, his tone was final. Of course he'd done this a lot of times before to suppress his unwanted ability, but the very first time he did it was for a whole other reason; one that he would prefer to take to his grave than to relive and share it with some stranger.

Harry watched as Louis slowly wobbled his way over to one of the beds, not caring how dusty or dirty it must have been, before he flopped himself down on it. His body flinched when some of his wounds were grazed on impact, but his body felt too heavy and so didn't move at all after that.

With a heavy sigh, Harry looked around the motel again to make sure they weren't followed. When his eyes saw nothing noteworthy he stepped inside and locked the door behind him; it took a couple of tries as there seemed to have been a problem with the lock.

"You're paying for a place to stay and security. That's why it's expensive." Louis turned his head away from the sheets to speak. The rest of his body remained still from exhaustion.

Harry scoffed as he shrugged his coat off and carelessly threw it onto the back of one of the chairs. He began to unbutton the first few buttons on his shirt as well, feeling suffocated from everything that has happened. "What security? The damn door can barely even close right." He bitterly muttered.

"The man didn't ask why we stood in front of his business arguing for ten minutes. He didn't ask why I was blindfolded. He didn't even ask for an I.D." Louis slowly spoke, his voice softening as he did. With every horrible thing that had happened, and what he knew was about to happen, sleep seemed like the only peaceful escape for now. "That kind of security."

Harry sat himself down on the edge of the other bed. He watched the man as he slowly drifted off. Louis' breaths evened out the longer Harry watched. The detective was envious of how quickly Louis fell asleep. It was the opposite for him, with adrenaline flooding his blood and questions plaguing his head—it would have been a miracle for him to fall asleep.

With a sigh, he got up from the bed again and decided to check up on the sleeping man's eyes. He remembered how Louis mentioned they got injured somehow earlier that night, so slowly, as not to wake his little fugitive, Harry untied his tie from Louis' head.

As the fabric let loose, the detective was only met with more confusion. Aside from the slight swelling obviously caused by his crying, they didn't seem injured at all. The closest cut was above his brow.

Harry felt tricked, the small lie caused his doubts to grow immediately but before he could bring himself to wake Louis up and question him, a loud ring echoed in their dim room. The source seemed to be come from the pocket of his coat, making him walk over back to it to answer his phone.

One glance at his screen and his heart was at his throat. "Styles." He said into the phone, his partner's voice replied immediately.

"Where the hell have you gone to?" Niall was angry, Harry was sure. Even if they hadn't been partners at their work for years it still would have been clear that he was pissed off by the way he spoke harshly. "That Sheeran bloke is here again, hell knows why! They've been questioning everyone and are now demanding to go through the station's files, and your fucking ass is nowhere to be found!" He barely paused throughout his rant.

"I—um, I got a bit..." Harry paused not knowing what to say as he had just been following his gut the entire night. His eyes glanced at the sleeping man, despite the lie and his doubts, he still didn't think Louis was at any fault with regards to their case. "A bit dizzy from the scene. I couldn't stand the sight of the dead little girl. 'm sorry, mate." He said, it wasn't necessarily a complete lie, but it was definitely still very far from the truth.

Harry knew Niall would feel sorry for him then, and that's what made the guilt he felt even heavier. "Right, forgot 'bout that for a moment." As expected his partner softened his approach before completely backing out. "You go ahead and rest up then, I'll hold down the fort this time. But you best get your ass here soon, alright, Styles?"

"Alright." Harry sighed. He bit his lip before he spoke up again, just as Niall was about to hang up on the other side of the line. "Niall?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't let those folks into our database just yet." Harry requested, eyes set on Louis as he spoke into his phone.

"You want me to withhold information from CIA agents?" The skepticism already audible in his partner's tone.

"No. No, that's impossible." Harry said, brows low and hands fiddled with one specific ring on his fingers. "Just...just stall until I get back. I have to check something before they do."

It took a while before Harry got his partner to agree, but in the end Niall said that he would try his best but made no other promises. It was only logical, those agents were of course persistent to get what they want, just as always. Niall would have to pull trick after trick just to stall them.

Even long after the phone call had ended, Harry remained where he was. Eyes still trained on Louis as he slept. It was creepy he knew somewhere at the back of his mind, but his thoughts were anything but perverted.

It was only when Louis started mumbling and shuffling on the bed was Harry snapped out of his trance.

He moved closer, the detective in him couldn't resist the curiosity to hear what he was saying.

" _Please_ , _not again_."

_Not again._

_Not again._

The phrase, though only mumbled seemed like it was shouted due to the dead silence in the room. Over and over Louis mumbled until his body was almost trashing on the bed, his eyes shut tight and face twisted in fear.

Harry, fortunately familiar with nightmares himself knew what to do. Despite not knowing the man that well, he slowly ran his hand through Louis' hair, which he now noticed was damp with sweat. He hushed him down with whispers of soothing words until his movements slowed, his breathing even once again. But the frown remained.

" _Please_ , not again." Louis mumbled once more.

And it was then that Harry knew there was no way he was backing out of this now. Because he too mumbled those words in his sleep many times before.

He wasn't sure what Louis was running from, but he knew that kind of fear. He still lived with it, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are too sweet you got me blushing. Thank you so much for sticking with me and this story despite the irregular update schedule!
> 
> By the way, if you haven't already, check out this video Jae made for this fic:  
> <https://twitter.com/daggertapes/status/1028674800586186754>
> 
> It's amazing! She's amazing! I got chills watching it!

_The painting he just finished mocked him from where it laid, ripped apart, on the floor by his feet. It was, by far, the most painful one he had made._

_He sat alone in the musty room, but he felt as if he was being watched. The hundreds of eyes he has painted over the years stared at him, almost accusingly, as he buried himself further into the blankets. His blank blue eyes were glazed over as he stared at the television screen, barely paying attention to whatever was being reported on the news. He didn't need to hold onto every word, he knew exactly what the person was talking about._

_The scene on the news channel showed a mall held hostage by a terrorist group; the men hid their faces behind ski masks as their pale arms held massive guns to kill those brave enough to step too close. None of the hostages had been announced dead yet, but the man already knew it wasn't going to be that way for long. A lot of people, including himself, were about to lose their loved ones._

_A sudden chill spiked up his back as a freezing hand held his shoulder. The man jumped off the couch in a hurry, and turned around to by greeted by a horrifying sight._

_The stacks of paintings had disappeared, and it their place were bodies—mountains of bodies, piled up over each other. Their skin hued blue, limbs bent at odd angles, and blood oozed by the gallons. The man was horrified to realize that they were all familiar. They were all once painted on a canvas._

_He screamed as a hand clutched onto his ankle, cold and damp with blood. His wide eyes flashed towards the body the hand belonged to, and felt as if he himself had dropped dead at that instant._

_He almost didn't recognize her. Eyes that used to be warm with love were now blankly staring at him. Blood dripped down from the wound on her temple, down her face, and to the bodies beneath her. "You killed me." she accused, his mother's voice sounded like nails scratching across metal._

 

_"You killed all of us."_

 

Louis woke with a start. His heart pounded against his chest, and sweat poured out of his skin in buckets. He hated having nightmares, but he had it coming. Not only had he suppress his ability for hours, but the people that tortured him for years were now in the same city as him too.

He frantically looked around the motel room as his senses began to slowly realize that the horrid scene was only a nightmare. His blue eyes read every single detail before he sighed, although he wasn't entirely sure if it was because he was disheartened or relieved. It dawned on him that whatever had gone on last night—or this morning—wasn't just a dream, but nonetheless, Louis was relieved when he saw that nothing bad in particular would happen in this room.

Although of course, nothing was set in stone.

The door to the room opened all of a sudden, making Louis jump. His instincts told him to run—and to run fast, but he calmed down when he saw the detective's unruly brown hair. "You're awake," Harry said, brows raised slightly, just a little surprised. "Well, I got breakfast. I don't know what you like but I don't swim in money so I just got you something from a Mcdonald's near by."

Harry reached the bag out to Louis, which the man took hesitantly. With everything that happened the night before, he didn't know what to do next, or what to think of the detective in front of him. All he knew was that so far, Harry had decided to drag himself into his mess.

"Why?" Louis found himself asking. His voice a bit scratchy due to all the crying he had done.

Harry, who was sat at the foot of his own bed scrolling through his phone, didn't pause. Louis' words barely breached through the fog of worries in his mind. "Because I thought you'd be hungry after everything." Harry hummed, as he answered mindlessly.

"You know that's not what I meant." Louis snapped, mistaking Harry's response as a sarcastic one.

Harry's attention lifted from his phone, he immediately noticed the irritated expression on Louis' face which confused him. It was clear that he wasn't aware of the tension in the room. "What?" Harry asked.

"Why drag yourself into this mess?" Louis asked, as he sat the bag of food down on the dusty bedside table. "I appreciate it a lot, but you didn't have to—" he paused as he realized that he might scare Harry if he mentioned just how serious the situation was. It didn't matter though, that he didn't finish speaking, because the detective had already stood up from his spot again.

Louis watched Harry as he shrugged on his coat and pocketed his phone before he turned to face him. "Because I know you're innocent." Harry said, his steady eyes stared straight into Louis' shocked ones.

_You're wrong_ , Louis thought, but kept his mouth shut and his face cold.

Despite Harry's sure facade, something told Louis the detective barely believed his own words.

Louis held his stare as long as he could, not faltering once. A minute passed before the detective looked away first when he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. He glanced at it quickly before he made his way to the door. "I have to go somewhere. I'll only be a bit, and when I come back, you'll answer all my questions, yeah?" Harry said, and gave Louis a tight smile that was anything but friendly.

Louis didn't argue, he owed him at least that much. "Yeah." He said quietly. He was going to lie, of course. He knew that if he didn't, _they_ would put a bullet in between the detective's eyes in a second.

"Alright then. In the meantime, keep the curtains shut," Harry pointed at the window, "the door locked, and yourself in the room." Those were his last words before he walked out and shut the door behind him.

Louis was planning on doing just that even if he hadn't been told to. Being talked to like he was a child irked him, which is why he flipped Harry off despite the fact that the man was already gone.

_I'm not a moron, you moron_. Louis thought bitterly. He was used to this. Running. Hiding. Of course he knew what to do.

It was all he knew half his life.

Louis stood from the bed, muscles sore but he managed to stretch them anyway. His blue eyes scanned the room for another escape route just in case he got cornered, but it seemed the only exit was the door they came in from, and the window right next to it.

With a sigh he started pacing, the fear in him had yet to settle down. It had been years since he was able to lay low and lose those people, and he was already used to his almost-simple life. He had a job, a humble one cooking at a small diner, along with night shifts at a local clinic cleaning up at night. They weren't anything grand, but it gave him enough to sustain himself while staying mostly unseen, and that was all he could ask for.

He was finally able to get a place of his own, even stay long enough in it to decorate his room with small things like a flower vase he found nice, or a picture or two. He's met so many people, made friends who he got to hang out with from time to time; neighbors who he shared small talk with; even had a quick fling with a girl he found cute at their local bar.

He was finally building a life for himself. Finally getting a taste of normalcy.

He dreaded being captured. A voice at the back of his head was screaming that he would be better of dead than back with them.

It was only the growling of his stomach that brought his mind back into the room and out of his thoughts. Louis' eyes immediately locked on the bag of food the detective bought him. He figured if the man wanted him dead he would have done it in his sleep and not with poison, so his mind was free from suspicion as he ate.

It was only seconds after his first bite that his attention wondered away from the present once more. Thoughts raced a mile a minute to think of a place that he could go to, and how he could get there. Obviously he had to leave town as soon as possible, and that wasn't a difficult choice seeing as the two people that kept him in the city were now dead.

Lea and Chris.

Louis knew he wasn't to blame for their deaths, but that did nothing to stomp down the guilt he felt knowing that he could have saved them had he been more careful.

It all boiled down to that one move. If he hadn't panicked, Lea and her grandfather would still be alive, he wouldn't have been arrested, his paintings would have remained his secret, and they wouldn't have found him so soon.

It was all his fault, and he knew it. He couldn't blame this on anyone. It was truly ironic that for someone who can read what would happen next, he was unable to see the consequences of his actions then.

"I think I bought us a few more hours." Harry's voice suddenly broke Louis' guilt ridden train of thought. "Hopefully that should be enough to get a few things straight and figure out our next move." The detective said, about to shove the door shut with his shoulder to help the rusted thing close but Louis stopped him.

"Wait!" He jumped off the bed in time, and got between Harry and the door, finding a gentler way to close it. "It's a bit old, you would have broken it off its hinges if you slam it shut." Louis told him. Of course, what he didn't share was how he _saw_ the door actually breaking had Harry slammed it. It would have caused Harry even more money had that happened, and Louis already felt guilty with how much he had spent on him already.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" Harry said slightly confused to the man's concern for a door.

Louis gave him a smile, though he didn't even try to make it look convincing. "Better safe than sorry." His words, like his smile, fell flat.

It was good news, that the detective had gotten him more time. _Hours_ , even. Had he heard him correctly? Louis only expected to have a few more minutes at most to himself. The news of having a few more hours, gave him hope.

_I've ran for this long_ , Louis thought, _Maybe I have a chance to keep on going_.

"Right." Harry said, stretching the word to fill out the awkward silence in the room. "Well, I've still got plenty of questions, and we're not moving an inch until I get some answers." He said.

Louis held a sigh. He owed the detective answers, even if he needed to lie through most of them. "Alright, start then." He said, moving to what seemed like a small kitchen to the side of the space. He propped himself up the counter. Though it had questionable dried stains on it, it seemed much more inviting than the rickety chairs in the room.

Harry followed him but opted to remain standing in front of him instead. "Did you kill those two? The old man and his granddaughter?" He asked, his eyes green eyes stayed locked onto Louis' blue ones. Harry already knew what Louis' answer would be, of course.

There was pressure that strangled Louis' chest, and a bitter taste lingered in his mouth. But he knew the question was unavoidable. He smiled sadly at Harry. "I loved Christian. He was a sweet old man that did everything he could to raise the child of his daughter," Louis spoke, his eyes were once again adamant on not leaving the detective's. "He didn't have much, but on days when I had less than him he never failed to invite me over for dinner.

"Lea," Louis' words caught at his throat at the name, but he went on a second later. "Lea was bright little girl. Never failed to brighten my day with a flower. If I was too busy to drop by, she'd leave the flower by my door." Louis felt his eyes water, but didn't let any tears fall. "She never met her mom you know? Only ever heard the stories from Christian, but she told me once, that she thinks her mom sent me to act like a substitute so she and Christian wouldn't be so alone."

Louis' voice broke and his gaze dropped to the floor below. He rolled his lips in and steadied his breathing. He was exaggerating his actions, of course, just to make sure the detective believed him, but part of him knew this whole thing was more than just an act.

Harry kept silent and gave Louis the time he needed to gather himself. The detective was sure then that he made the right decision to help him. His question hadn't been directly answered yet, but he was already convinced that Louis didn't kill the two.

Louis' eyes were red, but clear of tears when he looked back up at the detective. "They were my family. I loved them. I would have never done anything to hurt them." He spoke, although he was certain that was going to be last honest thing he would tell the detective.

Harry, though moved by Louis' words, pressed on for more answers. "Then what happened? Why did you attack a woman in their store?"

_Because I was trying to save them,_ Louis thought. "I was high," he said instead, opting for an easier way out.

Other police officers probably would have ate the story up and called it a day at that, but Harry wasn't just another officer.

"No, you weren't." Harry simply said, expression unreadable, and statement so blunt it shocked Louis—though he didn't show it.

"Yes, I was. I used up my paycheck for a good trip–" his false story cut short as Harry talked over him.

"Your eyes were clear that day, Louis." His stern tone cut him off. "I know for a fact you weren't under the influence of drugs nor alcohol."

Louis stared at him, slightly annoyed that he was more perceptive than most cops were. But he wasn't discouraged, he had dealt with people like him in his lengthy past of running away.

Harry wasn't intimidated by Louis' silence and steady stare, and he remained quiet, waiting for his little fugitive to tell him the truth. He needed it in order to convince himself even more that this was going to be worth more stress in his life.

With a sigh, Louis broke the silence first. "I painted that morning; a blonde woman coming in to rob the store." He said. Harry already knew about the paintings, so there was no use in attempting to hide it. "I painted their small gardening shop, a woman with blond hair, the register emptied, and...blood. Splattered on the walls, far apart."

"Two stains. Two victims." Harry said in a hushed tone, knowing well that the subject was obviously still sore. For second, his mind flashed back to the crime scene he stepped into last night, which looked exactly like what Louis had described. Louis nodded once, his gaze dropped to the floor again. "You knew then? That they were gonna die?" Harry asked despite already knowing the answer.

"I did. As soon as I finished the painting I ran to their shop, I saw a blonde woman and thought _this is it_." Louis said, surprised at his own honesty, yet continued anyway. "I thought I got there on time. I thought I could save them. Turns out I got there too early and tackled some random woman instead." There was bitterness in his tone. It almost overshadowed the regret in his voice.

It was quiet once more. Louis knew Harry, being as smart as he was, would be able to piece together the rest of the story himself. How they found him and arrested him, and how the blonde woman in his painting robbed the shop while he was held at the station.

The sadness of the story forced a somber mood between the two, but Louis decided to bury his grief for now. He needed to be prepared for the one question he knew was coming. The detective would have to be completely ignorant not to ask it, and from their short time together he knew Harry was anything but.

Louis quickly glanced at the detective, but failed to read anything. It seemed that whatever would happen next was dependent on his own actions. That fact made him uneasy, but he was no stranger to lying—as much as he hated it.

When Harry finally met his stare again he knew it was time. The detective moved to a creaky chair as he spoke. "So what's the deal with these paintings of yours?" He asks, eyes once again locked on Louis, alert for any signs of trickery.

"I'm psychic," Louis replied, trying to manipulate his tone into a believable one. "I can see the future sometimes, if the stars will it." As he spoke, he hoped the detective hadn't previously ran into anything that would make him doubt his words.

Harry was silent, waiting for him to go on, and so he did. "My visions are blurry at best in my mind, that's why I have to paint them, to get a clearer picture of what I see." Louis said.

"Then why are they all tragic? Why are all your paintings about crimes?" Harry asked, though Louis was delighted and relieved that he sounded more curious than accusing.

"The tragic events are a lot clearer than those that aren't, making them easier to paint. I suppose it's the intensity of emotions in them that help with that." His rehearsed story didn't make any sense to himself, but he figured if the detective would buy his psychic story, there was little that he wouldn't.

When Harry remained silent, doubt grew inside Louis' head, but he hid it well. He hopped off the stained counter and walked closer to the quiet detective. His eyes catch the chipping of wood at one of the legs of the chair Harry sat on, and he wanted to snicker at what he saw.

Just as Louis was about to yank the detective up to his feet and off the chair, Harry spoke up. "Predict something then. Right now." He said, still skeptical it seemed.

Louis rose an eyebrow at Harry's challenging words. "Put your hand behind your head" he merely said, confidently meeting the detective's stare.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Put a hand behind your head," He repeated, doing the action himself so Harry could copy. Seeing the confusion in the detective's eyes, he rolled his own in annoyance. "Just do it, I'm not trying to trick you." He said.

"What is this for?" Harry asked but followed hesitantly, placing his hand behind his head like Louis did. Only a split second later when he did, did the old chair break beneath him. With a yelp the detective fell to the floor bottom first, the hand behind his head absorbing the blow as his back collided with the wall behind him.

" _That's_ what it was for." Louis said, a little smugly. "Thought you might not want your pretty little head to get bruised."

Harry sat there, dumbfounded. He wasn't one who believed in the supernatural, but even he couldn't find another explanation as to what he was dealing with. Although everything else set aside, he knew for sure that a psychic as accurate as Louis, in the hands of conscience-less CIA agents would spell doom for a lot of people. It was then that Harry was set in helping him run.

Which was odd since he was already pretty set on doing so before then. If anything, at first it was just to annoy a certain agent that he despised.

Preparing himself for even more problems in life, Harry began to remove the old wood that piled on his lap. Louis could hear him muttering to himself as he did so, and was confused as to why he heard Harry say "Should have fucking called a priest last night," under his breath.

"Right...So what now?" Louis said unsurely. He was hoping that the detective would help him run away, and not run to the nearest Church like his grumbling may have suggested. Had he sold the psychic lie too much?

"Now," Harry said, standing up and dusting himself off. "Now we need to find a match or some cold homeless people."

Louis' brows lower in confusion but before he can voice anything out, the detective shot him a look. "I trusted you the whole night, didn't I? It's your turn to trust me now." He said, and gave him small genuine smile at the end.

But he must have imagined that, right? Louis was sure no one would offer someone like him a friendly smile. He was sure his mind had just made that part up.

Harry grabbed his discarded tie from the floor and started to wear it again. Louis merely quietly watched from where he stood. The detective's words rang in his head.

He wanted to trust him, he really did.

But he couldn't. He couldn't trust anyone too much. Surely, not a detective who asks too many questions.

Louis decided there and then that he'd run the first chance he gets.

 

 

  
~*~

 

 

 

There was a tense silence present between Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles as they sneaked through the streets of Manhattan; silently, as to remain unseen. The task seemed a lot easier the last time they did so, with the cover of the night and broken streetlights. But maneuvering through the city in broad daylight, with a flood of people scattered on the streets— _that_ truly proved to be a lot more of a challenge.

Although, admittedly, something else was taking up Louis' thoughts at that moment.

The battered hat on his head smelled like rotten cheese. The awful smell was strong and persistent, and it tortured his nose even over the other horrid scents of dumpsters and moldy walls. But he was well aware of the street cameras, and who were, without a doubt, currently glued to monitoring them. The foul smelling hat being the only thing that he could hide behind as they scurried through the city, and so he grit his teeth and bared with it. Although, if his freedom hadn't been on the line, Louis would have burnt the darn thing before it could have even touched his hair.

The detective was several steps ahead of him, a plan of theirs to avoid getting spotted together. The plan was, surprisingly, Harry's idea. In a turn of events the detective seemed to have won most of their arguments that morning. It shocked Louis, considering he had been calling the shots so far, and it stroked Harry's ego quite a bit as he finally proved that he wasn't completely clueless.

Louis noticed how well the detective stuck to his plan, not once had Harry checked over his shoulder to check on him. Had he done so, it would have raised suspicion to anyone who would have caught the action on the cameras. He, for some reason unknown to Louis, trusted that Louis would stay with the plan too, and merely keep to following him at a safe distance.

He was aware that it was the best time to make a run for it, but with the way Harry was acting, Louis _saw_ Harry knew something he didn't. Unfortunately, his mind failed to show him what that something was.

So bitterly, and stuck with the motel owner's smelly hat, Louis bit his tongue and matched the detective's pace.

He reached into the pocket of his loose joggers, fishing out a sleek black phone. It was the detective's of course, he himself had never had the freedom to own one. The device was easily traceable, and could get have gotten him caught within a week had he owned one before. Besides, it's not like he had any use for a phone; he never had friends or anyone he cared for up until three years ago.

His hands fumbled with it, attempting to remember Harry's instructions on how to use the device. It took a few tries but he eventually managed to unlock the darn thing.

The screen showed an image of a little girl with messy blonde curls; she had what seemed like frosting and cake smeared on her cheeks and hands. Louis' attention was drawn to the little girl's eyes, noticing how they looked exactly the same as Harry's. It didn't take long for him to realize he was staring at a photo of the detective's daughter.

Louis didn't question the photo set as Harry's wallpaper, the detective had informed him beforehand that he was lending him his personal phone. It felt a little too risky to give him his work phone where sensitive files took home in. However, what did baffle Louis for a while was texting.

Louis' fingers were slow in typing out his message, but he managed to do so eventually.

**How much further?**

It took a few more tries to find the right contact to send it to. He double checked the number before he sent it.

As Louis waited for the detective's response, he opted to hold the phone in his hand rather than placing it back in his pocket. His eyes glued onto Harry's back as they continued walking.

He watched Harry's figure reach for his phone in his coat pocket, and was slightly amazed how fast the detective's fingers slid across its screen to type out a reply.

The phone in Louis' hand vibrated, catching his attention. He continued walking as he attempted to unlock the phone once more.

**We're here.**

Harry's message said, causing Louis to stop in his tracks and look up from the phone. A few people behind him collided against his back and shouted a few colorful words, but he ignored all of them. His head whipped around trying to find a sign of the detective but it was useless, Harry was nowhere in sight.

Frustrated, and slightly fearful, he made his way to the side of the street to stay out of the way of the stream of  busy people. With his back against the wall, and his head low, he started to slowly type out another message.

**I lost you.**

He sent his reply, and bit his lip. His eyes quickly glanced around him before going back to the phone, almost begging it for Harry's immediate response. His doubts on the detective's intentions wanted to resurface, but he fought them back.

Louis attempted to stay calm and continue to act natural, knowing that he was in public. He didn't feel safe out on the streets, anyone could recognize him at any moment, given that his face had been all over the news just a couple of hours ago. His best bet to keep hidden was to give them no reason to look his way.

With his heart at his throat, Louis almost jumped when the phone in his hand vibrated again.

**Are you fucking kidding me?**

He almost scoffed, partially offended at the detective's reply, but also annoyed that instead of a helpful tip on where he was, Harry sent that useless statement instead. His fingers immediately worked to type out a response—one full of curse words—still slow as he had to retype a lot of the characters when he tapped on the wrong keys. Fortunately, the detective sent another text, cutting Louis' struggle short.

**Apartment building with green paint.**

It said, quickly followed by more texts. Louis was jealous on how fast Harry could type out his messages, but wondered if it was normal and he was just the odd one out.

**It's right next to a convenient store with a fruit display outside.**

**Top floor, 55A.**

**Just pretend to be talking on your phone and walk straight to the elevator. Don't look at the guard or front desk.**

Louis' eyes caught the building Harry described. It was just a few steps behind him, he must have walked past it when his eyes were glued on the phone.

Louis quickly placed the device by his ear, copying what he had only seen others do around him. He hoped he held it correctly as he headed for the building.

"No, yeah, I just got back. I'm only about to head up." He spoke, again hoping he didn't sound like he was screaming into the locked phone. He kept his eyes on the elevator across the room, purposefully avoiding the guard and other personnel, as he acted like he had always lived there. "Did you need anything? I could head back out after I change." He told no one but the blank phone.

When the elevator opened, it was luckily empty. Louis gratefully stepped inside and pressed on the highest floor before the rooftop, his eyes staring straight ahead until the doors finally closed. He leaned against the wall, watching the numbers count the floors it passed.

His body still ached from yesterday, more so now actually, when the bruises have formed and were now visible. The cuts scattered all over his body were still sore, and some stung whenever the fabric of his sweaty shirt brushed against them. With everything that has happened within the last day, the thought of showering hadn't even crossed his mind until now when he noticed he smelled of rotten cheese and sweat. He was hoping wherever the detective had lead him to had a bathroom he could clean up in.

When the elevator doors opened again, Louis was greeted with a hallway of almost identical doors. The only thing that set the faded white doors from each other were the bronze numbers nailed onto them. He moved quickly to find the room Harry had texted him a while ago, and it didn't take long before he found the door with a bronze title that said _55A_.

The detective opened the door immediately after Louis knocked, and quickly stepped aside to let him in. As Harry scanned the hallway to make sure they weren't followed, Louis took his chance to look around the room.

It was definitely not what he expected.

The walls were a bright shade of blue, and the entire floor was covered in a black fluffy carpet. The modern looking furniture almost looked like they were glowing with their neon colors. He turned a questioning gaze toward the detective whose head was still stuck out the door. His lips curved upwards in a genuinely amused smile; it had been a while since he was surprised, and even longer since the surprise was a pleasant one.

Harry caught the look on Louis' face when he finally locked the door behind him. He was immediately confused by the fact that Louis was smiling teasingly during such a grave situation. "What?" Harry asked, but didn't wait for a response as he moved past him and deeper into his apartment.

Louis followed him as he yanked the smelly hat from his head. "Didn't expect the place to be so retro, I pinned you more as a minimalist type of guy." Louis said, and sat himself down on a blue barstool after he had followed Harry to his kitchen. "You know, all that gray walls, and black and white furniture kind of thing."

Louis watched Harry's back as he opened his fridge and dug around for something. He heard the detective snort after his words before he responded. "That would be dull as fuck. I can't imagine trapping myself in a prison like that." Harry said. He then rose from the fridge with a carton of orange juice, and kicked the fridge closed behind him.

Harry was just about to move towards the cupboards for two drinking glasses, but his eyes locked on the disgusting hat that Louis had placed on the counter in front of him. He sneered at it, "We're burning that too."

Louis' ears perched up. "Too?" He questioned, as Harry moved towards him; one hand holding a carton of orange juice and the other held two wine glasses by their stems.

Harry set the items down between them, and quickly swiped the gross hat onto the floor with a disgusted look. "Yes, too." He said proceeding to pour them both a drink. "I have whatever records we got on you from last night, and we have to burn them. And that hat looks and smells like it crawled out of the Devil's arse and I don't want to be near it anymore."

Louis' eyes widened at Harry's words. Judging by the way the detective acted he had guessed that he was hiding something. His record, however, wasn't one of his guesses on what it was. "How'd you manage that?" Louis asked, ignoring his comment on the foul-smelling hat. Although his ability could help him see what would happen in the future, it did nothing to help him see the past.

Harry slid one wine glass full of orange juice in front of Louis, before he chugged all of his down in a blink of an eye. Releasing a sigh of content, he began to pour himself more while responding. "Climbed through the window while my partner was trying to distract the bloody CIA agents. It helped that they hadn't fixed the surveillance equipment yet." He shrugged.

"Quite the law breaker for a detective working with the NYPD." Louis smiled at him mockingly, but only received a quick wink from Harry as he drank down yet another glass of juice.

The short pause that followed was enough for both of them to feel the sudden awkwardness in the room. The fact that they were both strangers to each other suddenly dawned on both them.

Here Louis was sitting in a man's kitchen, foul-smelling, bruised, and puffy eyed. And Here was Harry, in front of a man he doesn't know offering orange juice in a wine glass, and sharing his distaste for monochrome interior designs.

The pair bit their bottom lip, and averted their gaze elsewhere at the same time.

A heartbeat of silence passed.

"So, where's your daughter?" Louis spoke, only to realize Harry had spoken up too.

"You could take a shower, if you want." His deeper voice spoke over his own.

Their eyes locked, and Louis' words sunk into the detective's mind. Harry's face scrunched in sudden pain, but for only a second before it quickly morphed into a blank expression. The change however, lasted long enough for Louis to notice.

The quick show of emotion was enough for him too see where exactly Harry's daughter was. The heartbeat of silence suddenly stretched to what felt like hours between them.

"I'm sorry." Louis said, his voice soft. He knew far too much what it was like to lose a love one. He tried to retract the damage his words had caused. "I didn't know she was—"

But Harry already stepped away from him before Louis could finish. His palms pushed against the island in between them; as if his body was weighed down with led and he needed extra force to get it to move. "I don't really like talking about it." He murmured. The faux ease that had unknowingly and momentarily set between them shattered. The grave situation became even darker with the accidental opening of a can of worms.

"It was recent then, huh?" Louis found himself asking. He knew it was a bad idea to sympathize with the detective. It could only enlarge the risk of forming some sort of emotional attachment with him, and moreover it was a waste their limited time. He was well aware of that, but he was also well aware how much it hurt to grieve all alone.

His eyes watched as Harry turned to lean against the sink, his back facing him as he stared out the window. Louis saw Harry run a hand over his face, and remained silent as he slowly dragged it down. He watched the detective's reflection as his fingers played with his bottom lip before he finally responded. "No, not really." Harry sighed. Louis straightened in his seat as Harry turned back around to face him all of a sudden. "No, it wasn't recent, but that doesn't make it hurt any less."

Harry gave him a smile. It was a smile that said what his words couldn't. A smile that was anything but happy. It was the smile of a person who had lost everything, and was only forced to act as if he was moving on for everyone's sake.

Louis smiled back. His too was anything but gleeful. As his lips curved upwards his eyes casted down. He couldn't bring himself to meet the detective's dead eyes.

He knew all too well what Harry was feeling, but at least he wasn't forced to live in the same place as where his parents died. He could only imagine what life was like for the detective, having to be stuck in a place that held so many memories. Too many memories.

"So uh," Harry said, voice a little off as if he was holding back tears already. "That shower, yeah? I'll go make sure I didn't leave anything unsightly in the bathroom. Give me a moment." He rushed his words as he moved to leave the kitchen. His head was tilted down, angled away from where Louis sat.

"Oh, thank you?" Louis said, but much too late as the detective was already halfway through another hallway.

Louis followed and stood up from his seat to lean against the doorframe of Harry's kitchen. He watched Harry's form rush down the short hallway to the last door, before he reached his hand out to open it.

From what Louis _saw_ , he knew the detective was going to take a while to gather himself after such a deep wound being torn open once more. He felt sorry for him, but understood. He made to turn away back to the barstool he was sat on moments ago, to give Harry his time, but the detective's voice that echoed through the apartment froze him.

"Who the fuck are you?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Care to guess who Harry was talking to at the end?


End file.
